


Les Rois de Versailles

by gaytectives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Car Sex, M/M, or the 1700s equivalent anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>voilà une histoire vague qui sert comme couverture pour le sexe homosexuel</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Rois de Versailles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllthingsnovelyFics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllthingsnovelyFics/gifts).



> This is a completed commission for tumblr user [allthingsnovely](http://allthingsnovely.tumblr.com/), who requested "a regular day in the life of King John and King Sherlock." I know you requested that the day end in bed (which, it technically does), but I hope that my careful alteration of your request is sufficient. ;) wink
> 
> Big thanks to tumblr user [consultingwives](http://consultingwives.tumblr.com/) for editing this piece and correcting my really shitty French!
> 
> My commission info is [here](http://gaytectives.tumblr.com/post/123250014536/hire-a-small-plant-to-write-stuff-for-u-with-their). hmu if you're interested!

There is a point in one’s life at which routine is so deeply ingrained that the chemistry of the brain alters to fit one’s lifestyle. John knew from the moment he could properly conceptualise the job he would be taking on when he matured, that he would one day reach this point.

No matter, it’s still disappointing that he finds himself blinking into wakeness, face pressed to his husband’s chest, just before he knows they are about to be woken.

He sniffles quietly through morning congestion and shifts against Sherlock. If he opens his eyes, le Valet de Chambre will wake them now, and he is not ready to start the day. He loves this time of the morning. They never fall asleep in this position - Sherlock is always the one pressed up to him when they go to bed; John on his back, Sherlock’s face in his neck, legs tangled, loosely intertwined. He knows that he remains stationary in his sleep. He always used to wake up in the same position he fell asleep in. It’s Sherlock’s fault that they switch and turn around. There’s not a single stationary bone in his body.

The morning horn blares and Sherlock jolts and sits up quickly, awkwardly crushing John’s face into his lap. John shoves him and tears his bleary eyelids from one another, leaning up on one arm to squint around the room.

“ _Messieurs_ ,” le Valet bellows, “ _C’est l’heure_.”

Sherlock groans audibly and flops back on to the bed, leaving John to smile at le Valet. “Merci,” he says, waving a hand in dismissal. Le Valet steps back to stand by the doorway. John blinks a few times, trying to clear his blurry vision, and gazes up to his husband. Sherlock has covered both eyes with his arm, dramatically thrown over his face, and John smiles endearingly.

“This time comes every morning,” John murmurs, placing a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “You know you need to let them do their jobs.”

“I detest them and their jobs,” Sherlock mutters.

John sighs mockingly. “It is so difficult being a king.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Sherlock says. John can see him smiling under his arm.

“Of course, love,” John laughs. “Come on, then, up. Time for bath, isn’t it?”

Sherlock groans once more and sits up, pouting at John. His hair is everywhere, flattened on one side and a frizzy mess on the other, and John can’t help but laugh, leaning in to kiss him once chastely.

“Mm, bit of beard,” Sherlock mumbles. “What a shame it is shaving day.”

John grins and pulls back the covers, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His Valet sweeps over and patiently waits for John to stand, then accompanies him to the tub at the opposite end of the room. John stands patiently as he’s stripped bare, watching another Valet pour hot water into the tub. He chuckles when he hears Sherlock’s disgruntled noises as he’s pulled from his clothes, and allows le Valet to help him into the tub, sinking into the steaming water with a relaxed sigh, tipping his head back happily.

He’s scrubbed and washed and pulled from the water again to dry. He holds out his arms, doesn’t let himself tense when le Valet rubs down his back and his arse and other areas unmentionable. He glances over to Sherlock, who is clearly fighting the urge to attack his Valet.

“C’est absolument ridicule,” he complains, trying to take the towel away. “Je peux m’habiller  moi-même, je ne suis pas un enfant.”

“Sois sage,” John warns. His Valet slips a dressing gown over his shoulders and ties it at the waist. “Si tu ne t’assieds pas tranquille pendant qu’ils te peingent, tu te blesseras.”

Sherlock scoffs and takes his gown from his Valet. “Nonsense,” he mutters. “I cannot understand a word you are saying, John. Your French has always been poor.”

“I have been speaking French for twenty years now, that insult has been long retired,” John says. He rolls his eyes as he’s manoeuvred into a seat and le Valet starts combing back his hair.

It’s a pointless routine, letting someone else groom him - he agrees with Sherlock, naturally, but it’s something they’ve both been raised with since childhood. One would imagine that someone from a family such as the Holmeses would have acclimated. Still, the routine is no different this morning than any others. Les Valets attempt to do their jobs, and Sherlock offers to parry with shaving razors, with the prize being his right to groom himself. John can tell from the look in their eyes that, truly, they wish to abandon their posts and attend breakfast, but they also wish to avoid being discharged from employment, and so they continue to attempt to shave a rambunctious king without accidentally beheading him, glancing with desperate eyes in the husband’s direction, wishing they could ready John for the day instead. However, John is quite fond of his Valets, and refuses to switch with Sherlock, no matter how clear it is that both the king and his manservants are resentful of the job.

And so the kings go through their morning, dutifully ignoring the audience which gathers as the morning grows on. They are dressed in their bedchambers with Versailles’ nobility in the antechamber, watching. They sit through breakfast surrounded by attendants and smile at each other across the table, hardly touching their broth.

As they walk to the Royal Chapel for Mass, John wishes to reach out for Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock wishes to reach for John’s. They walk alongside one another, flanked by guards, through the Hall of Mirrors, with their hands clasped behind their backs.

When they sit down in the pews their fingers find each other and cross and overlap on the small amount of seat between them. John can feel his cheeks pinken. Even after twenty years together, it’s a thrill to sneak a moment of public affection.

They bow their heads and shut their eyes and rise and sit and rise and sit until the service eventually, finally ends, and the kings are led away again. Their fingers ruefully part as they march back to their apartment. John smiles when he hears Sherlock humming the morning’s Chapel Music and Sherlock smiles when he sees John’s smile.

“I liked this one,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Of course you did. It was a Delalande, was it not?” John asks.

Sherlock beams proudly. “That it was,” he agrees. John aches to pull him into an embrace. The day is horribly long and retirement is hours and hours away.

“Tu as le Conseil des Finances aujourd’hui.”

“Oui,” Sherlock says, “et toi tu as le Conseil d’État. J’ai le meilleur jeu.”

John quirks a brow. “I thought you hated finances.”

“I am reviewing our trades with les Pays-Bas today,” Sherlock says happily. “There could be nothing easier. Nos vins sont en forte demande.”

“Tu es trop sûr de toi,” John scolds. He smiles nonetheless.

Their guards part down forked hallways and they hesitate, fingers twitching.

“Tu veux faire une promenade après nos conseils?” Sherlock asks. He blushes and the sight sends a shiver down John’s spine.

“Absolutement.”

They nod to each other and part ways, the future of France far from the forefront of their minds.

-

“Oh, _fuck_ this - bloody - fucking _lace_ ,” John hisses. He grabs a handful of the ruffles covering Sherlock’s shirt and pulls threateningly.

Sherlock laughs and puts his hand over John’s. “I endured - an entire hour of dressing and I - _ah_ \- ” He cuts off abruptly as John gets a hand on his arse and pulls him even closer, the knees of his breeches sliding easily against the velvet carriage seat. His lap settles naturally into John’s and the kings groan as their groins brush together.

“We’ve only half an hour,” John murmurs. He kisses his way up Sherlock’s neck and nips his husband’s jaw playfully. “I shan’t spend it talking.” He releases his fistful of shirt and continues trying to find an end to the cloth, lifting his head to kiss Sherlock properly. His teeth graze Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock whimpers softly, rutting his hips against John’s thigh.

Sherlock manages to pull just slightly away. “How long - before the coachman checks on us?” he asks. His lips are already kissed bright red and John can’t tear his eyes away from the sight.

“At least ten minutes,” John says. He slides his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s breeches and tugs down in slight, a grin growing on his face. “Nous pouvons faire la bête à deux dos sans souci.”

The statement sends Sherlock into a fit of giggles and John joins in, his heart warmed from the sight of his husband’s smile and red cheeks. He pushes aside the collar of Sherlock’s waistcoat and kisses the base of Sherlock’s neck. He dares to suck gently, drawing breathy moans from his husband. Sherlock’s hands wriggle their way under John’s shirt and hike the material up, the fingers of one spreading like a fan over John’s stomach, and the other reaching confidently into John’s breeches. His hand wraps around John’s cock and John releases the skin of Sherlock’s neck with a gasp, bucking thoughtlessly into Sherlock’s grasp.

“ _Oh_ \- fuck - ” John pants. He presses his face against Sherlock’s neck and digs his fingers into Sherlock’s arse, breathing heavily. Sherlock runs his hand up John’s chest and takes John’s chin into hand. John lets Sherlock pull his face up and kisses him bruisingly. He sucks Sherlock’s cupid’s bow and Sherlock’s tongue teases his lower lip. It feels like there’s fire beneath John’s skin, creeping up his veins, pushing its way from his body to Sherlock’s, and mingling between them.

Sherlock ruts against John’s thigh while he strokes John’s cock, his free hand clutching John’s shoulder tightly. Their chests brush with each of Sherlock’s movements and the motion reminds him of the previous night; Sherlock riding him frantically with the bed’s curtains drawn around them, the world shut out for just a moment in time to allow them to come together.

“C’est - horriblement mal - oh, _John_ ,” Sherlock gasps, grinding his clothed cock into John’s hip. The feeling fills John’s eyes with stars and he reaches down the back of Sherlock’s breeches, holding him close by the swell of his arse.

If they had the time, he’d strip Sherlock bare from the waist down and work him open slowly, tauntingly, and fuck him until he shouted himself hoarse. For now, he presses one finger down the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and teases lightly around his hole. Sherlock gasps again and ruts harder, stroking John faster as a result. John rolls his hips and kisses Sherlock again, a hand crawling up to tangle in Sherlock’s slicked-back curls.

“T’es vraiment - f-fucking _gorgeous_ ,” John huffs. He presses the tip of his finger into Sherlock’s hole and Sherlock chokes on his breath, his hips stuttering to a halt as he comes in his breeches. John bucks into Sherlock’s hand twice more and comes a minute later, leaving them both a sticky, wheezing mess.

“Oh, Dieu,” Sherlock pants. He rests his cheek against John’s. “Putain d'enfer.”

John breaks down into breathless giggles. “You know, I did not want to undress you for fear that something would be lost or put on backwards, and now you’ve gone and come in your breeches.”

Sherlock starts laughing, shaking his whole body. His hand is still settled comfortably around John’s cock, and, though the motion makes him feel quite over-sensitive, it’s lovely and comfortable.

John grins and kisses Sherlock’s jaw a few times. “T’as ton mouchoir?” He asks, smiling. “You need to clean up, it will get crusty and you’ll be uncomfortable all throughout Supper.”

Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s and gazes at him fondly. “I shall in just a moment,” he promises. “I want this calm for just awhile longer.”

John’s heart swells and somersaults. “Of course, my love,” he says. “Just awhile longer.”

-

Le Valet de Chambre secures the door behind the kings and takes his post without a word. He stares over the top of the four-poster bed and stands guard as they ready for bed.

John sighs happily as he removes his clothing, layer by layer. The lace and ribbons and collars all fall away, and with them the weight of his profession.

He expected, when his father explained their lineage to him as a child, that he would have to grow used to all of this - the constant presence of the public, the responsibility of running a country. He was told that his marriage had been arranged hardly a year after his birth, and he expected that this, too, he would have to grow used to. Having his decisions made for him - extremely important decisions. Ones that, given the chance, he would have preferred to make for himself.

He never expected, however, that one day he would look across the bedroom of the apartment he shares with his husband and feel an overwhelming wave of affection come over him. He would never have expected his husband to look back, a soft smile on his face, and beckon him to bed.

And god knows, John never expected to enjoy it so much.

 

_La Fin_

 

 


End file.
